Riddle the Ripper
by Pensieve Plotter
Summary: Mr. Riddle slinks through Knockturn Alley looking for the perfect victim, and waiting for his opportunity. It happened when Voldemort worked at Borgin and Burkes in 1947. Complete.
1. The Encounter

**Just some information: Prostitutes (particularly those engaging in street prostitution) are sometimes the targets of serial killers, who may consider them easy. This story is totally fictional though, of course! When I first came up with this idea, I knew it was gold. Please read on and review too!**

Chapter One: The Encounter  


A man in a black cloak over a plain suit walked through the busy street of Knockturn Alley, his footsteps echoing down the path. He was by himself and at this fact, perfectly happy to be alone. It was just before midnight on November 28, 1947. The dead leaves stirred through the autumn air with a foul scent. It seemed the smell of death itself was pervading through the icy breezes. The moon was full and bright above him. He sneered imperiously at the clusters of lowly witches and wizards going about whatever nasty business was theirs.

The man knew what he was looking for on the claustrophobic streets of Knockturn Alley. He'd fantasized doing a particular something to a particular someone for awhile and had watched this someone carefully. Holding a job as the shopkeeper's assistant for Borgin and Burke's had immersed him in the center of the black market of the Wizard World in Great Britain. Knockturn Alley was advantageous for many reasons to him.

A figure of a witch was slouching in plain black robes at the corner, situated in front of the Magical Menagerie. As he came closer, the witch turned to face his direction, probably wondering if she was about to get a client. Her pale face peered up at the tall man, face shining in the moonlight, expression impassive, but shrewd.

Straightening herself, she revealed to the debonair man, the outfit under the robes. It was a cue, a kind of signal prostitutes like her use to say he could have her.

His dark eyes dilated, slightly aroused. A cloud of cologne engulfed her. It smelled heavily of rich musk and made her feel even more attracted to him than before, as it was enchanted.

"I'll give you ten galleons. That's more than fair for a night with me, witch….What's your name?"

"Ophelia…Ophelia Sinistra," she said vaguely. She was used to the wizards who used her body, not giving a damn who she was. Ophelia certainly wasn't expecting this man to care, either.

He continued to appraise Ophelia, who wore under the robes a black tube-top and miniskirt, black knee socks and slippered flats. But it was the choker that caught the shopkeeper's assistant's eyes. The choker had a serpent etched in the middle. The man's brown eyes burned red for a second, but Ophelia could not see it in the dark. He surmised this was the best prostitute to select for his desires.

"Nice to meet you Ophelia. My name's Tom Riddle," was said in a friendly manner. He wanted to be sure this prostitute would willingly go with him.

Mr. Riddle looked curiously into her hazel eyes, through the curly raven hair framing her slightly wrinkled face. Ophelia was in her early forties.

"You don't need to be afraid, Ophelia. No. It's because you are with me. That pimp of yours isn't going to find out about you stealing the money tonight."

Ophelia's eyes widened. Nobody had ever read her thoughts so succinctly. She did not know what Legilimency was. It was a branch of magic Mr. Riddle is highly accomplished at.

"Well…Where to Mr. Riddle?," she said casually. He had succeeded at putting her at ease.

He laughed lightly, "I insist upon you calling me, Tom…. "

He slipped his hand in her hers and they started back up the alleyway.

Ophelia looked up at him over his broad shoulders. Tom's presence had something downright impressive about it. She figured he must be a particularly powerful Warlock (as she referred to Wizards on Knockturn Alley as 'Warlocks').

When they got to the Dark Arts pawnshop, he took his wand out so fast it was an unseen whirl. The door unlocked magically and they entered. He accompanied her past a long shelf of skulls to the back where there was a staircase.

They proceeded down it to what was obviously Riddle's lodgings located in the basement. It was a simple room with only light touches. A double iron bedstead, a closet with flashy suits, robes and cloaks. To the left was a desk with dozens of books and parchment strewn all around with strange magical inscriptions.

As Ophelia's gaze lingered over the desk, Tom said lacking expression, "That's for my experiments….We'll sit by the fireplace."

With his wand, he transferred the leather armchair over to the fireplace across the flagged stone floor. Then with another transient wave, conjured another chair.

Ophelia went to sit in the conjured chair, as Tom turned to retrieve something out of a medicine chest. He returned with a bottle of wine and two goblets. Handing a goblet to Ophelia, he poured some of the blood-red wine. Then poured himself a goblet-full, reclining back in his armchair.

Ophelia was pleased by this, Tom Riddle. She had not enjoyed such a treat for a long time.

**Note: please review!**


	2. The Trap

Dear Dr

CHAPTER TWO: THE TRAP

Ophelia Sinistra slid the robes off from behind her shoulders, draping them over the back of the chair. For it was pleasantly warm with the fire crackling merrily. She drank deeply with contentment.

Riddle's eyes glinted with intense curiosity, his undivided attention on Ophelia, merely sipping his wine.

"So Ophelia…why would you feel obligated to steal money anyway? A beautiful witch like you, I'm sure can earn plenty of galleons for her services."

The prostitute sighed and with a sinking feeling in her stomach confessed, "You'd think so. But there just isn't enough coming in to find a place. The money only goes as far as my sustenance…."

Ashamed, Ophelia looked down at the stone floor, where she could not see the smile that had pursed the man's full lips, full of a delight that was almost bestial. He knew he could pursue what he wanted now he'd gotten her to open up. It paved the way for a trap.

"I tried living in The Leaky Cauldron, but that Tom the barman kicked me out, soon as I didn't pay! I even tried to get a place in Hogsmeade, but nobody wanted me there. They say I'm skum…So I've been living with my horrible pimp ever since."

She meekly looked across and unexpectedly blushed profusely. Ophelia had not seen on the street what extraordinary good looks the man possessed. But now in the firelight, she saw his outline clearly. Ophelia doubted she would ever have the privilege to pleasure another man this desirable. Batting fake lashes, she opened her mouth to say more.

But before inquiring, he seemed to have read her thoughts "I don't own Borgin and Burkes, obviously. I am only their unfortunate assistant, Ophelia."

There was a long pause, as Riddle's gaze locked hers. The chair creaked as he leaned closer. He was calculating just what he was going to do with this 'thing' he owned.

Ophelia calmly stared back, studying the Warlock's finely carved features. She adored his hollow cheeks, high forehead and thickly curved brows. She finally detected the momentary red gleam in his dark eyes, yet absentmindedly glanced towards the dancing flames, thinking the light of the fire to be at cause.

Riddle drained the last of his goblet in one gulp and set it on the armrest negligently. He then stretched his hand out, massaging her thighs hard like a vice.

Instinctively, Ophelia's legs spread apart. Riddle's eyes narrowed, giving him a delicious peek at the prostitute's goods under the little black skirt.

He cupped his left hand around the small of her back, and with the other hand, traced his long fingers up from under her silken thighs. Riddle lifted the light woman from the armchair almost effortlessly and rose to his height of just over six foot three.

Ophelia's prior worries washed away replaced by a sensation of great excitation. Despite having sex so often, it was sure to prove different from the typical routine.

Tom Riddle had a wild smile, as he placed the woman he was cradling in his arms, onto the iron bedstead, evincing tenderness that is in actuality false.

Please Review!


	3. Possession

Dear Dr

Warning: This is an extremely graphic, sick chapter. Words cannot describe how cruel. To a serial killer, "murder" and "possession" are interchangeable phrases.

CHAPTER THREE: POSSESSION

Kicking her flats off, Ophelia reposed on top of the iron bedstead, expectantly.

The prostitute rested a hand over her bony hip, the other hand twirling the curly ringlets of her hair, all the while gazing seductively at handsome Tom Riddle.

In one sweeping motion the Wizard unclasped the silver fastenings of his cloak, letting it fall, dramatically. He pounced onto the bed.

Riddle surveyed Ophelia with an inscrutable expression for several moments. It was impossible to tell what the man was thinking.

His dark eyes glinted and he spoke sternly, "You shall call me 'Master' at all times and obey the commands I dictate."

He waited for a reply. Ophelia laughed lightly thinking this to be a role-play, just like the games she'd played with other client's many times before.

"Oh, yes Master," she answered, sweetly defiant.

His eyes narrowed at the apparent ease Ophelia had with submission. The atmosphere changed subtly. Riddle did not savor how his first order was regarded.

Riddle moved his prostitute from the sideways pose, laying her flat against him.

Ophelia could feel Riddle breathing down her chest, towards her supple, ripe breasts. He kissed with ferocious eagerness, from the forehead to the pouchy cheeks, and then her lips. He proceeded to her average-sized bust.

Ophelia kept raising her curly head, trying to do some of the snogging, wanting to taste his succulent lips. It was near impossible, Riddle would not allow a share of the control. The alert acuity was startling. Ophelia surmised there was not a chance to gain dominance. She would have to be totally submissive.

At her busts, he rapidly massaged them with his palms. Ophelia sighed peacefully, her nipples stimulated.

His large hands crept past to her torso, kissing the stomach and giving a final kiss: an intentional peck on her belly button.

But suddenly, Riddle grabbed her toes of both feet, and he spread her legs upward.

He fingered the vaginal tissues, stimulating a healthy dose of masturbation. Finding the clit, he pinched it. Ophelia shrieked, full of surprise. Yet, quick on the uptake, she enthusiastically voiced, "Thank-you Master!"

She continued to produce the clear, syrupy liquid of female masturbation. Riddle did not want his prostitute to have comfort during intercourse. Making slurping sounds, he consumed her wetness.

"Now little Witch…take your wand out and insert it all the way in. The incantation for temporary infertility," he whispered.

Ophelia gaped at him silently. She shook her head.

Then sputtered, "Mr. R-Riddle…I'm not a W-Witch. I am a disowned-"

"Squib!" he interrupted, seeing it through Legilimency, now she was thinking about it, he knew.

Riddle's eyes flashed red for a second. He jabbed his wand, plunging it inside her opening, and sneered, "You lied to your Master, filthy Squib!... But no matter…."

He inserted his wand, penetrating inside her pussy. Ophelia's scream pierced the air of the soundproof chamber. It felt like a knife, especially because she wasn't wet.

Meanwhile, he did the incantation, non-verbally for infertility, still grasping the handle, the rest of the wand inside.

Then just as harshly, he jerked the yew wand out.

A high ringing laugh ensued. Riddle's hands darted to Opehlia's lips, pressure mounting against the gums.

"You're going to decay into a corpse, after tonight, Ophelia," Riddle said quietly, cruelly. That cool breath of his caressing her ears.

Ophelia shivered involuntarily. Riddle saw a vision of her visage, currently plastered with make-up, morphing into a hideous skull.

She wondered if he'd gone mad, or maybe he was only pretending. She decided not to risk it, "P-please, sir. I want to stop. I had enough, we can d-do something else, Mr. Riddle. Don't hurt me, sir!"

It was exactly what he wanted to hear: the prostitute begging him for mercy, for life!

Still donning his suit, Tom Riddle puffed his chest out imperiously, and made a gloating smile, "Ah, Ophelia, my pet. We have only just begun, and you shall pay for that memory lapse, forgetting to call me, 'Master'."

And at that, Riddle swiftly flicked his wrist.

Flaming, thin magical ropes bound the smooth, youthful hands at the midriff, the skin searing.

He undid his tie and Ophelia looked onward for one more fleeting second before gracefully it was wrapped over her hazel-green eyes.

Unbuckling his belt, Riddle pulled his pants down to his knees along with his briefs. Adoringly, he stroked his huge dick. It was like the King of Serpents to young Lord Voldemort. Pre-cum oozed: to him the crème of the crop, being the most powerful Dark Wizard alive. He continued to lazily stimulate his penis, whilst he monolouged to Ophelia. She listened hard, straining to hear every sound, her other sense's heightened by the blind-fold.

"I'm going to destroy you, worthless Squib. You remind me of my mother a little. You see, she was a slut just like you. Submitted herself to a muggle fool to gain his affections. It was a love potion she gave my father….But first, I will control you,…completely."

He towered over her small frame, and his cock sunk into her vagina. He banged in and out with a timed rhythm.

Soon Ophelia, who had managed to become calm, moaned pleasurably. Her entryway was widening, turning a velvety red.

Riddle noticed this, and instantly, denied the squib orgasm. Then, his wand all the while in his hand, he bellowed, "CRUCIO!"

He watched for sheer amusement, the corners of his mouth curling, as his prostitute writhed on the bed. Torturing her was the real reason he enjoyed intercourse with victims.

"MERLIN,- help me!" Came a typical, agonizing cry for help.

Tom Riddle threw his head back. "Merlin?" he questioned incredulously. "I am the one and only authority, the Master. I, the one whom the world will call by title, being the greatest sorcerer. No…. Master shall not show mercy."

He being 'Master' as he called it was the absolute truth in Tom Riddle's mind, because he considers his true identity to be Lord Voldemort.

He watched the prostitute writhe again. Finally bored of the screams that had been arousing him, he relinquished the Cruciatus.

Leaning close, he gently peeled the blindfolds off. Ophelia stared up, appalled at the pitiless eyes, only wishing to find an ounce of remorse where there was none.

He pointed with his wand down to his balls, showing it off to intimidate her.

"Let's see…" her Master said more to himself. "Yes…On your stomach!" He commanded.

"Oh, Master…. Please," Ophelia dared plea for comfort.

He did not respond, but waited staring at her, becoming more infuriated the longer she hesitated to obey him.

She submitted to him, struggling to turn her body over. It was difficult with hands bound in searing ropes below her chest.

He started to pump his cock with vigor through her anus. Ophelia, maneuvered herself to the Leap Frog position, which she happened to enjoy immensely.

Riddle continued, until he found his long fingers quivering with delight.

His hands like large pale spiders found their way under Ophelia's boobs hanging out the tube top. Riddle squeezed the pair of nipples like pincers, pinching so that the nipples were almost coming off. Her flowery nipples burst open with the sweet nectar of milk, so that it drizzled down her top.

"Oh! Do stop, sir! Make it stop! Make it stop! Make it stop…."

He made the decision to end rather abruptly. Dragging the woman by the arms like a sack of flour from the bed over to the armchairs by the fireplace. Ophelia's hands grappled, trying, even though it was hopeless to escape.

Riddle sat down like on a throne, spreading his legs out with his mistress on the stone floor, gazing upwards imploringly.

After several seconds, as he was marshaling his thoughts, Riddle undid the ropes binding her hands.

"Pour me a goblet of wine, Slave," he ordered right after. Ophelia glowered at him, angry because the bottle was right next to him. But the prostitute did as ordered; relieved he wasn't torturing her anymore. She bent down, picked the bottle up, and then took the goblet, filling it to the brim.

Without a shred of gratitude, Tom Riddle took the goblet in his hands. He waited for the sweating and shaking to subsume, allowing her to calm down. He'd wait a few more minutes before he would kill the thing.

"Entice me with a strip tease," he announced.

He waited, dark eyes fixed over his goblet, planning to sip when his slave started. Ophelia bit her tongue, and looked away, she meekly spoke, "No,…Master."

Frustrated, Riddle raised his wand and quipped, "Imperio!"

Observing the haziness and blankness overtake the Squib's eyes, he told Ophelia, "Strip down!"

She instantly unbuttoned her tube-top and Riddle watched taking measured sips. She slowly pulled the tinny black miniskirt to the ankles. She had not been wearing a bra or knickers.

"Hands behind your back." Ophelia assented.

Riddle set his goblet down and said imperiously, "Bow to the Master. You're to suck, like it's a pacifier, Cunt."

Understanding what he meant, Ophelia mindlessly bent over, ignoring muscles stretching painfully. She rather enjoyed this activity as a prostitute, so it came naturally under the Imperius. She looked up at Master, locking her eyes with his, seeing he was enjoying it, too. He watched the little frame sticking out before him, the back arched with a cute rump raised, and the neck straining.

After a minute, Tom Riddle was growing steadily weary of the sensation, and Ophelia was nearly choking it was so far down. He pushed her away, and removed the Curse.

"I had to resort to the Imperius Curse, to force my slave to obey me," he reported, lacking affect.

Ophelia's face burned with deep shame, and he clucked his tongue like a displeased Schoolmaster.

In one sweeping motion, the handsome Tom Riddle had her over his lap.

She clung to his leg in desperation, embracing the shins.

"What a silly, naughty girl," he cooed sarcastically.

Expecting a harsh punishment, Ophelia flexed her plump lobes perched across his knee. The prostitute knew from experience that she was in for a good spanking.

But punishment was prolonged; instead Ophelia felt her buttocks being kneaded like they were dough about to be baked.

"Did you forget I said you'd become a corpse, Ophelia?!…"

He lazily raised his right hand. The spanking was executed with precision. Ophelia's doughy buttocks were singed, burning hot.

She began to sob and he teased, "Oh, look…crying…. I think it's about time for you to leave."

He grabbed a fistful of those raven curls by the scalp and shoved her off his knee. He jumped up, and made her to stand as well.

He raised that long, yew wand, flinging her against the wall. Ophelia landed as Riddle had planned, on iron spikes nailed to the wall. They dug into the flesh of her back, blood spurting.

Tom Riddle edged forward and jammed one last time into her vagina. Ophelia was conscious; her back feeling like it had been bludgeoned by an ax. It was pain beyond pain. For besides the bloodied backside with the severely spanked rear, there were bruises and creaking joints, seared wrists and a seared midriff, torn leaking nipples, sore insides from the brutal sex, with an exhausted Crucioed body and an Imperiused mind to boot. She thought, she actually hoped he would finish her.

He fucked her one last time, in standing position, the prostitute's legs wrapping themselves around his from a reflex reaction.

Just as he reached the consummate ejaculation, Riddle triumphantly yelled, "AVADA KEDAVRA!"

There was a jet of green light and Ophelia Sinistra was jolted to death. That was all there would be to the life of that prostitute, the unlucky target of Lord Voldemort.

Riddle glimpsed the lifeless hazel eyes, feeling maximum pleasure. His hunger for dominance satisfied, he licked his lips. Smacking them, he murmured a moan of desire, thinking how he was going to dismember the body.

He ripped the leather choker off the body's neck, and the head tilted.

He turned away from the macabre display.

He placed the choker, with the serpent etched in the middle on his dresser, as it would serve him as a sentimental memento.

"Accio skull!"

A skull he'd been keeping from the shop zoomed through the air and Riddle erected it, marking it like a crown over the head of the corpse. It signified the murder scene. Then with his wand, he siphoned the remnants of blood and semen, as normally as if it was the routine for clearing up one of his experiments. The evidence disappeared into oblivion.

Riddle extracted his latest victim off the rungs of the spikes and disapparated to his cave. The very cave where he'd once terrorized two fellow orphans as a ten-year-old.

Note: Please review it you've read.


	4. Dismembering

Dear Dr

Why I write this: I believe Voldemort is extremely evil… So I believe he did these things I've written. One of the most disturbing chapters in canon is "The Cave" in Half-Blood Prince. It shows that Voldemort probably commited many other murders, perhaps even killing a poor squib prostitute like Ophelia Sinistra was.

Chapter Four: Dismembering

Twenty-year-old Voldemort apparated into the antechamber. Ophelia Sinistra's limp, lifeless body in his grasp as a side-along apparator. Riddle had brought the black robes Ophelia had been wearing earlier.

High tide was fast approaching, water roaring and sweeping closer from the long tunnel that led to the sea outside. The water rose over the steps, as he ascended them towards the blank wall at the end.

Sangfroid in his movements, despite the churning, twisting blackness spilling onto the landing, Riddle had a complete lack of fear.

He bent down, and heaved the body against the wall, rubbing it there. The blood still oozing from her impaled back, smattered onto the entrance.

The illusory arched doorway appeared, glowing. It highlighted the smattering of the squib's blood. Even though it wasn't blood of a live magical person, Riddle knew it would work because the blood had not yet dried, the moist droplets glistening.

Riddle entered the temporary opening, and it was like he been swallowed whole, swallowed into a black hole of dense, impenetrable darkness. Eeeily silent, as if there was no roaring waves just outside, the man held his wand ready, and lit.

He began his trek, through the gigantic, cavernous cave, his shoes making slapping sounds over the puddles. Clad is his plain suit, the lumos spell illuminated Tom Riddle's handsome profile with a silvery shadow. Obstructing that shadow, was the body of the young woman. It grazed the jagged rocks, as Riddle carelessly dragged it along with him for the next several minutes.

Until he came to right where he knew it was inside his cave. For he could sense the trace of the concealment charm he had placed there months ago for the mode of transportation he was now seeking. Jabbing his wand at the precise location, he used a nonverbal reavealing spell to see it.

He stooped over, and had the anchor unhooked. Then grabbed a coiling, snake-line chain out of the placid water, raising a boat. Riddle took the body of Ophelia by the waist, and tied the end of the chain to the neck of the corpse, quite fond of the process.

He stepped into the green, curved boat, built only for one and it set sail at once. It's pace was languid, yet convenient enough not to disturb the brackish lakewater.

The thousand specks of silver light glimmered over the glassy surface. Riddle saw his Inferi lieing dormant in their eternal resting place.

He woke several of them, by stunning with the stupefy charm. As more of them rose to stand, they got the other of the dozens of zombie-like Inferi alert. The unfinished army of Voldemort's dead victims, stood in close clusters, watching almost curiously, even if they lacked intelligence. The only thing they that made them capable was what was directed by magic, through their Dark Lord's commands.

Their misted eyes glazed over the ravaged body of Ophelia lieing in the prone position, naked and skidding the surface, being tugged along.

After a quarter of an hour, the boat reached the equally dark center. There was an onyx stone island, with a pillar and an empty basin. The boat stopped and Riddle took a fistful of the chain and wrenched it, until he had his latest victim at his side again.

In his arms, he knelt down and cradled the corpse, feeling his own pleasure as it's wet, cool body against his own. The tip of the yew wand, aimed at it's chest.

Riddle whispered a magical language of arcane incantations as a method of dismembering a corpse to make it an Inferius. Gradually the pale skin of the woman, was crinkling . All her blood was being drained into oblivion. Inside, Riddle knew the muscles were evaporating into nothingnes, the heart being first, sqeezed of it's blood like a towel being rinsed.

Once finished, the body was a desolate white, and Riddle marveled at her skull-like visage. Opening the mouth, he checked to see there was no tongue as expected. All the organs and fat were dissipated. She was literally skin and bone.

Riddle pulled up the shades of the eyelids, and revealed the shrunken sockets. Green and silver sparks emanated from his wand, as Riddle transfigured a pair of magical eyes into the sockets. The eyes were misty and glazed, just like all the other Inferi's.

He rigged the robes, dressing it. Once finished, a broad smile erupted, it was like it was time for Voldemort to play. To play his awful game of training the Inferi to respond to his biddings.

The corpse was revived into it's soul-less shell and Riddle felt empowered by the sight. He could feel heavy masturbation, under his pants and briefs.

Riddle had to pause before he started teaching his new Inferi. The wild urge to gain control over it sexually, would have to come first. His pants were lowered in a second and he crouched over the dead body, his pulsating cock erect and filled with his blood. His long fingers moving up and down the shaft of his penis, massaging it almost lovingly. He was in a state of exictement at the anticipation of the act of sex with the dead, flooding his mind.

Riddle's hips writhed with an increasing fervor. He jerked himself out, just before orgasm and then entered the corpse's vaginal passageway again. He did not stop repeating until he had three times. Finally a high, cold scream echoed through the dwelling, "ARRGH!" Voldemort had reached his orgasm.

The sensation of intense relief and satisfaction welled up. It was more pleasure then he had ever experienced when Ophelia had been alive.

He rested, leaning against the pillar, sweating profusely but feeling a wonder, in his eagerness to control the dead. Semen spurted on the darkened floor of the island.

Like a porcelain doll, yet dirty and tattered, the Ophelia Sinistra corpse was sitting up, perfectly motionless. Not a single movement could it make, incapble of even blinking it's empty gray eyes.

Riddle rose and levitated his revived corpse. He directed it to the lake, where it landed with a plunk. It plunged down, beneath the murky depths never to be remembered by him again.

Even though he was fatigued, Riddle managed to stay awake.

The other Inferi, were crowding around as they had been observing. There were only a couple of dozen, but Tom Riddle certainly planned to have thousands within the next several decades.

He picked out one Inferi, the corpse of a small child. With the connection forged between his wand and his mind, Voldemort communicated an order to the one Inferi. This could not be done verbally, because the Inferi were deaf and could not understand verbal language.

The one Inferi immediately responded by traveling over to the other side of the island, the clammy hands of the child inferi stretched out, it's fists opening and closing. It was as if, the inferi believed it was to strangle something, and that was the idea. The Inferi, would create more Inferi by one day killing other living people.

Once the child Inferi, started all the others responded like magnets drawn to the action of the one. Each one, obeying the Dark Lord commands quite woodenly, all moving to the other side as a uniform group, their gashed, but bloodless wounds starkly evident on their pasty complexions.

Feeling an odd attachment to the dead corpses, Riddle bid them good-bye with a wave of his hand as a sort of joke with himself. The Inferi were so slow and stupid they did not understand the gesture. They just gawked at the wizard slipping in the opposite direction, leaving the island, through sailing in the boat.

By the time Riddle, got to the shore and left the cave, all the Inferi had went back to their dormant positions.

When he got back to the antechamber, a wift of the salty air went through his nostrils as he took a blissful breath. Nostagically, Riddle took in the atmosphere, remembering the time as a ten-year-old when he had first revelled in his magical abilities, through torturing the muggle orphans in this very same cave.

The high tide was gone, but a greenish tinge was present, at the end of the tunnel. Clearly, it was the first sign of daybreak.

Eager for a few hours sleep, as he was quite exhausted, Riddle disapparated into his lodgings in the basement of Borgin and Burke's. Within several seconds, he fell onto his bed, still clothed.

By eight o'clock he was awakened by the alarm clock on his nightable. It was time for the shopkeeper's assistant to get ready for work.


	5. Aftermath

Dear Dr

I'm sorry if this chapter wasn't glamorous or exciting enough for you…it's main purpose is to show the horror of how easily Voldemort can resume his normal life immediately after brutally murdering someone.

Chapter Five: The Aftermath

Tom Riddle started his day, rolling out of bed on the right side. He headed towards the lavatory, concealed behind the closet. Just like any other day he went through his routine, which started with a hot shower.

Riddle stepped out, after turning the taps off with his wand. He wrapped a white linen towel around his waist smartly. The dark curly hairs on his chest held tiny waterdrops like sparkling jewels.

He sighed, feeling rejeuvenation. It wasn't from the tingling warmth he had just been immersed in, but rather the usual feeling after successfully murdering and placing yet another corpse inside his cave. It always brought him an endearing sense of renewal.

Briskly, Riddle crossed the bedchamber, over to the fireplace towards the armchairs where he and Ophelia Sinistra had had a drink together. The atmosphere held the same perpetual gloom, the only light a few guttering candles. What had been a roaring fire last evening, was now dissipating into dieing embers.

There was the squib's skirt, tube top, and next to the iron bedstead her shoes. Riddle simply focused on the vanishing spell, aiming his thirteen-and-a-half inch yew wand to get rid of the last chunks of evidence. He then put the wine glasses back into the medicine cabinet, along with the empty bottle.

Meanwhile, the flashy black suit he had worn last night, lifted into the air and was directed through the accio spell back onto a hanger. Riddle then used a scourgify on the garment as the magical way of washing clothes.

Next, he decisively grabbed another one of the fancy tuxedos he'd bought. He took the towlels off, standing naked, while he first pulled the pants on. His exposed body was thin, but enough that he was certainly not overly thin. Twenty-year-old Voldemort had a pronounced muscle tone. He was thin, but fit as well.

After the pants and underwear, he rapidly put on a square silverly belt. Then a crisp shirt was buttoned up with his deft fingertips, cufflinks set by the wrists, and finally a metallic gray waistcoast over a cobalt-blue blazer, matching the pants. With a final addition of socks and shoes.

He went over to the rectangular, vertical mirror, on the wall over the dresser. Somewhat critically, Tom scrutinized his appearance, and picked up a shaver on the surface of the dresser and started shaving his sideburns. His creamy skin was virtually absent of any blemishes as he had seemed remarkably immune to them all his life. He had found out sometime early on at Hogwarts, that some of his kind had odd quirks, like hair that grows back faster than normal and just won't be combed flat. Yet with Tom Riddle, it was the skin he was in that was an oddity. As a boy when he had returned from the annual day trip provided by the orphanage, all the other children had gotten a bit of a tan, but Tom's complexion remained seemingly untouched by the sun.

But lately, he had become paler than what he had even been before. His finely carved features had only been accentuated further by his cheeks recently chiseling into hollowness. It made him more handsome than ever. Peering into the mirror another moment with a saccharine smile, he cocked his head slightly, getting the last of the facial hair off. It was pleasing to know he was handsome, at least for the present it was an advantage.

Opening the topmost drawer, Riddle took out a silver bow-tie, tieing it around his neck, with an awful smile at the thought that his horcrux experiments must have really rendered him immortal. The changes to his appearance were considered by the very few who knew about horcruxes as a marker of proof, as he had read in Secrets of the Darkest Art. The young man's dark eyes misted gloomily, his imagination passing into seeing a monstrous visage looking back at him. He hoped for it to happen in the future. It was what he wanted afterall, to be what others may call "ugly" and what Lord Voldemort would call "unique."

He checked his magical pocketwatch on the shelf nearby. He had received a pocketwatch on the day he had come of age. His most intimate followers had bought it for his seventeenth birthday, explaining to him that it is a pure-blood tradition to give a watch to a wizard the day he becomes old enough to legally do magic without the trace.

And just above was the skull erected as a reminder to his deeds of last night. The spikes where the prostitute had endured the last bit of exquisite agony before Voldemort finally killed her. It would only be a matter of time before he got tired of the décor and removed it.

The rotating moons and stars of the watch showed that his boss, Mr. Borgin and his other boss,(the partner of Borgin's), Mr. Burke would be arriving at the store at an estimation of a quarter of an hour. Riddle glimpsed himself once more in the mirror, full of vanity. Patting his chest, he attached the pocket-watch on his silver-grey waistcoat, under the cobalt blazer.

Darting unexpectedly out of his private quarters and with only a meager movement towards his wand, the door locked. He ascended the claustrophobic staircase, and went to the pawnshop's entrance, to get the newspaper outside. He snatched the paper from the ledge, and strolled back over to the front desk. The Daily Prophet's front pages smoothed out on the tabletop, next to a little bell that would ring whenever it detected customers' newfound presence through the homenum revelio spell placed over it.

Riddle conjured from what was left over from yesterday, an increased quantity of buttered toast on kippers with a mug of English tea. He sipped from it patiently, as he munched on his breakfast, scanning the Daily Prophet for it's most important headlines. There was nothing about Ophelia Sinistra missing yet, of course. It was unlikely she'd ever get in the paper at all as a disowned squib prostitute. It all depended on whether her pimp bothered to report her disappearance, as was improbable.

Chewing on the last morsel of toast, the door burst open with a draft of icy November wind. A pair of middle-aged men trooped into the shop together, just as they did every morning, which even included working on the weekends.

"Morning, Tom. Unload this stuff, will you?"

"Yes, of course Mr. Borgin."

Riddle strode to the display window, after wiping his hands on a napkin to where Mr. Burke had rested the goods. As was the usual, Tom arranged the new merchandise in the store window like he did whenever new items were to be unloaded. The box held an assortment of glass figurines of ghouls that had syrupy, bright liquid visible inside. The sun streamed in, gleaming onto the new items, as Tom started marking the prices on little cards to be put in front of them.

"No need to jack up the cost this time, son. Keep them at the usual retail price," Burke said sounding out of character for the usual obstinate man he was. It was very rare indeed for the partners not to be evincing at best shrewd and uncompromising words, and at their worst downright dishonest values to uphold as businessmen.

Riddle raised an eye-brow, inquiring curiously, "Is there any reason for this sudden decision to be, might I say phlianthropists, sir?"

Mr. Borgin laughed almost good-naturedly at Tom's polite insight. While Mr. Burke, whose chipped teeth were revealed in a smile answered, "It's actually all thanks to you, Mr. Riddle for the unprecedented profits since you've been on board. We think cheapening some of the magical items in Borgin and Burkes, might bring in a new group of customers. And with your charm, they'll keep coming for more, and we'll gradually hike the prices back to the usual."

Tom nodded coolly and went back to the counter, this time to work on advertising strategies. Almost an hour had past, until they had their first customer. The actual crowds of consumers did not arrive on the scene from Knockturn Alley until late afternoon, and it did not worry them if they had an absence of customers in the morning.

Mr. Borgin and Mr. Burke had departed briefly to attend to some of their own private affairs. They confidently entrusted Tom Riddle to tend to their store alone. He was immersed in the Daily Prophet once again, when the bell alerting the presence of a customer chimed three times.

Riddle looked up his attention rapt. In an instant his face contorted into a mechanical smile, "Ah…Miss Hepzibah. Delighted to see you again, madam."

The old woman sauntered down past the moribund ancient artifacts, over to where the handsome salesman stood in a flashy cobalt-blue suit. She had the gall to look at him with elevator eyes, blushing as if she were a youthful maiden. Riddle could see that the elderly witch had the nerve to undress him with her tiny eyes.

"I've brought you some of my cherry cream cakes, Tom," Hepzibah Smith indicated a wicker basket in the crook of her arm.

"Thank-you…Seeing you have not brought anything else with you, I'll assume there's something you're looking to purchase today, madam?"

"Oh don't be so formal, love," she said dismissively with a wave of her hand, and she set the basket down.

Riddle's finely carved face was expressionless, as he surveyed more closley the wealthy, elderly lady who had come by as she always did in the early hours. He could see, that she had, as was her habit put on quite a lot of powder and perfume to impress him. Her dress was a green silk, that made her like a curved vegetable, in her tight, creaking corsets.

She scooped a cake out of the wicker basket, and tried to stuff it in Riddle's mouth, but he was to quick for her. He caught her wrist gently, and took a large bite of the cake to satisfy her.

"Delicious, an absolutely sumptuous delicacy," Riddle commented after swallowing, feigning gratitude.

Hepzibah issued a girlish giggle and she flounced around, her tiny eyes gazing at the shelves looking over everything most greedily.

Young Voldemort did not intervene but watched quietly from the sidelines. He knew old Hepzibah's ways by now, and how she was an indecisive type of buyer. How she liked to test her patience through loitering around the store for awhile.

Riddle peered down, over her shoulder and suddenly said in a cold, but smooth tone, "I suggest the Goblin made coat of arms madam. It's strength is prodigous as it never tarnishes with age. It would look very nice in your conservatory."

"Yes, it would. I'll take the one that was part of the Peverells. I daresay their lineage runs through the pure-blood line of Smith, even though the Peverells are now extinct in the male line."

Riddle removed the goblin-made Peverell Coat of Arms shield from it's protective enchantments that were placed to prevent theft. He then wrapped it up for the old lady, along with all the other, less expensive objects she was buying.

"Why don't you roll up your sleeves while your wrapping it all up for me dear?…You must be sweating under that woolly blazer of yours!"

Unperturbed by the woman's obvious crush on him he answered, "I don't perspire as much as most, madam." And in actuality this was true.

Riddle finished and handed the pile of brown-papered packages to Hepzibah Smith who took them gingerly. He helped steer her out of the shop, and she addressed the shopkeeper's assistant once again, "Next time you visit, Mr. Riddle I'll be showing you something very special. Very special indeed, I can't wait till you see it, dear boy!"

A ripple of red appeared in Voldemort's eyes, that Hepzibah Smith could not see, as she tottered outside the store, laden down with packages.

"I'll come by at four on Monday, December first, madam," Riddle responded warmly. He could smell a founder's object about to finally be presented to him for sure. He knew, he would have to place this wealthy, old witch's death once he got what he's been seeking for the last couple of years.

And with that, the lady turned out into the street and with a noise like a zipper, she disapparated. And Voldemort, the young shopkeeper's assistant went back to work.

So this is the end of the story. Ending at the point, where Tom Riddle would be making his final visit to Hepzibah and Hokey the house-elf. After his next interaction with her he would poison the wealthy, besotted old woman. Voldemort would run off with locket and cup without anyone having a clue. Please review!


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